


Tom Swift and the Aztec Airship

by Darklady



Category: Doc Savage - Kenneth Robeson, Tom Swift - Victor Appleton
Genre: 1920s, Action/Adventure, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Of all types, Stratemeyer Syndicate, The Author Regrets Nothing, boy's series fiction, classic pulp fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tom Swift finds a map to the famed Valley of the Vanished, his spirit of adventure assures that he will not rest until he has gained the treasure of the City of Gold. He has the lead, but his rival Andy Foger wants the treasure as well, and there are powerful forces out to make sure neither lad succeeds. Can Tom and his chum Ned and the crew of the Red Cloud find the city first, or will someone else get it in the end? </p>
<p>For that matter - will everyone 'get it' in the end?</p>
<p>A thrilling boys adventure (not to mention boy-on-boy adventure) in the classic pulp series tradition of one of the first great juvenile heroes. </p>
<p>Twisted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro and Disclaimer

Let me explain my personal sickness: This is based on the first Tom Swift series, the ‘boys novel’ series created by the Stratemeyer Syndicate under the authors name of Victor Appleton _(and written by only god knows who)._ Publication started in 1910 and ran to 40 (or so) volumes. The quality varied from eh to ouch! The sales figures varied from wow! to ‘oh heaven where is my checkbook’. There is a reason you recognize the name today. 

Doc Savage and the great age of magazine Pulp Fiction came a bit later – but not so much later that the two genres did not overlap. This was again a ghosted series, one released under the name of Kenneth Robeson. I’m sure you recognize this name as well.

The science is… well; they call it comic book science for a reason. Some of Tom Swift’s inventions have come to pass – which may give you hope for the Marvel Universe. None of Clark Savage Jr.’s really nasty ones have, or I don’t think they have, which gives me hope for humanity. Nothing, however, should give you any hope that this story will rise above the original. Not even Tom Swift’s magic lifting gas can move this ‘gas bag’ of a tale into the realm of reality. 

Fortunately I’m not trying for that. I’m really just indulging my own fascination with early series fiction and my deep desire to slash the heck out of other folk’s literary property. [Lucky for me most of the ghost authors are now ghosts indeed, and any grave site rotation will simply be taken as one more minor seismic event.] I will, however, try to match the format and nature of the works as much as my own style will allow. _(Characters and plots may be improved, proofreading probably not.)_

If you are a true fan with a deep and undying love of Tom Swift Sr. this story is probably not for you. If you are an adolescent fan of Tom Swift Jr. you will probably be confused at the lack of rocket ships. If you are an exhausted student of turn of the century American popular literature who can’t keep a straight face when discussing the ‘Dirty Dick’ novels? Welcome home!

I’d like to credit all those sadly unacknowledged authors who wrote this and all the other series of the period with far more sincerity of intent than I can muster. I wish to applaud Jon Cooper who hosted a fabulous ‘Tom Swift Generator” from which I selected all my chapter headings, and who wrote the The Complete Tom Swift Home Page . His is perhaps the most intense literary overview I have ever seen as a fan work (635 pages!). The cover review is worthy of study just on its own. Finally I wish to thank whichever faceless suit or corporate entity actually might still own one or more of the many and varied properties I poach for the kind act of not suing my arse off. I think most of the lesser Stratemeyer characters have slipped into the public domain, but several of the more famous series are still staggering like zombies along the shelves of your local bookstore. 

Tropes, character details, names, and such oft-disturbing matters are the fault of ‘Victor Appleton’. I just fic them. That said, I may mess with a few because… really…some of this stuff. For purposes of law please note I consider this a ‘parody’ and a ‘commentary’.

PS: This is also not related to “Tom Swift and the City of Gold” – other than that the title was an inspiration. That is one of the early Swift books I do not in fact own _(poor me)_ and so any details duplicated are simply because the series really is that repetitive. Also a coincidence.

PPS: I will be drawing heavily from the wider pulp canon for my minor characters. If you are also a ‘fan’ of some mostly-forgotten Stratemeyer Syndicate book series and would like to see some character loved only by you find a place? If you have a favorite obscure pre-war pulp? Do let me know and I will try to oblige. [Minor characters probably will not be labeled by fandom. The wonderful people at AO3 don’t need that much tag-wrangling hassle.]

PPPS: I plan this to run to the same 25 short chapters the Stratemeyer contract expected. My goal is to update at least once a week. Like those early ghost writers, I may not be as reliable as folks would wish.

PPPPS: Kudos. I =» ♥ «= Kudos.


	2. Human Fly!

“This new wing suit is the tops, Ned!” Tom Swift exalted. “You should come up.”

Tom Swift was suspended overhead in a contraption of his own design, a set of straps holding him to a pair of delicate airplane wings which he controlled by means of foot breaks and a cunningly devised set of levered gears. Propulsion – for this was no mere glider – was provided by one of the powerful electric motors that were the gem of the Swift Industries line. Any other man might have faltered at the prospect of flying so exposed, just as any other observer would have retreated from a human avis passing only feet over his head, but Tom had faith in his father’s production and Ned Newton had equal faith in Tom Swift.

“You should come down,” Ned Newton answered with assumed gravity. “I have papers for you.”

“Can’t father handle that?”

“Rad said no.”

That pulled Tom up short.

“Sorry, Mister Tom.” Eradicate Andrew Jackson Abraham Lincoln Sampson came up from the work shed, slowed by the load of packages borne by his intransigent mule. “ Mr. Damon took the boss into town to inspect a shipment of ferric iron.”

“I thought Garret Jackson was going to handle that?”

“When it comes to Mr. Jackson it don’t often pay to think at all.”

“True enough, Rad.” Tom cut the engine and began the circling glide back to earth. “Guess I’ll have to take over until he gets back.”

“You’d want to look these over yourself anyway, Tom. It’s the information from our contact in Hidalgo.”

“You’re sure right about that, chum!” Tom advanced. He hit the ground with a running stride, long legs serving in place of wheels as he ate up the last acceleration from his descent. He finished his run collapsed into Ned Newton’s arms. “I can’t wait a minute to see if he really did send us a map to the legendary City of Gold.”

“No more than I could wait to show you, Tom. ” He hugged his friend tight, animated by their mutual passion for invention. “Lets go to the den where I can expose everything.”

While Tom is thus occupied, I will take the opportunity to introduce the players and set the scene with a proper detail.

Tom Swift was the son of the great inventor and machine magnate Barton Swift, and despite his youth had already surpassed his father in mechanical ingenuity.

Past adventures, such as the discovery of a secret process for composing diamonds, had provided the young man with nearly infinite resources for contracting his futuristic devices. Those devices, in turn, had been shepparded into the market by his dearest companion Ned Newton, and being as practical as they were ingenious returned excellent profits for both the adopting industrialist of America and for the Swift Construction Company. 

Ned Newton for his loyalty had been promoted from bank clerk to officer of that civic institution with the special duty of servicing the Swift establishment, a position in which his hard labor was rewarded financially as well as with the trust and affection of the Swift family. He also had received his share of treasure from Tom’s past delving, in which Ned had been an eager participant. 

Thus, with both men far better endowed than might be expected at their tender age, you must not think it is any vulgar greed that now animated the company to undertake this new quest.

“A genuine Conquistador relic.” Tom laid the antique parchment on his worktable. It was a sturdy piece of ash, the impressive length claiming the center of his private workspace. It was here, in his snug ‘den’, that Tom Swift probed the many mysteries that gave the spark of inspiration to his inventions. “Did you ever think to get your fist around something like that?”

Ned stroked the tan length with one finger, teasing out the ripples that veined the old map. “Not if it’s real.”

“Bob Baker says the famed explorer Manual Gorro brought it with him on his expedition to the wilds of California. His father had been to the Valley of the Vanished as a young man but could not carry out the gold so he gave the map to his son in the hope that he could go back and claim the treasure, but the second Gorro was killed before he could do so. His map was lost for many years, but recently it came into Baker’s hands.” 

Tom whipped out an air ordinance map of the Hidalgo area, comparing the modern details of elevation and terrain to the navigator’s marks of the hand-drawn map. Crude and rough though the map was, Tom swiftly matched up the two views. “Baker spotted the very details you can see here, and he knew he had a real find.”

“Why didn’t he go after the treasure himself? Is he an old man?” Ned asked.

“No, a young American. He tried to mount an expedition but couldn’t get the right men. The jungle there is teaming with dangerous animals and untamed natives. The local crew he set out with had to pull out before they were half way in, and with his other duties he doesn’t think he can get it up again before the rainy season. That’s why he is willing to pass the map to us.”

“Lets hope it services us than it did him.”

“We will have the advantage of several new inventions I have devised for navigating in the jungle. Remember also that we will be taking the Red Cloud.” Tom indicated the air ship he had built earlier in his career, and which he had several times modified with his own inventions so that it provided greater space and comfort than any commercial zeppelin.

Ned glanced over the new plan secured over the machinist’s bench. Tom had indeed modified his airship, expanding the living quarters and adding several new devices to equip the ship for a southward journey. Such changes would make travel comfortable, but they also needed to carry the weapons and tools to work the treasure once discovered, and they needed lift to carry out whatever gold or jewels could acquire.

“Will it be big enough?”

“Don’t worry about size, what really matters is how skillfully l we fill it.” Tom inserted. “I’ve devised a new lifting gas, and I can keep it up even with a full load in the rear compartment. I won’t have any strain when I’m taking you.”

“I just hope we find fewer snakes.” He had been to the jungle before, when Tom Swift had led them to the Dark Continent to rescue Jacob Illingway. It had been a productive trip in a number of ways, and had given them a chance to test out Tom’s powerful new Electric Rifle, but for all that Ned could not say he had enjoyed the journey.

“I thought you liked snakes.” Tom teased. 

Tom pushed his chum back onto the table. It was built for the service and did not protest. Neither, one should note, did Ned Newton.

“That depends on the breed. Some of the local exemplars I like just fine.” This statement he confirmed by freeing his favorite serpent from the cage of Tom’s trousers. “The snakes of the Amazon jungle are another matter. I’ve heard some reach a length of ten feet.”

“Do you not think you could handle a ten foot snake?” 

Ned laughed. “I have trouble enough handling ten inches.”

Tom fisted a scoop of petroleum lubricant and applied it in the friendliest of places. “I will give you a hand.” 

“Thank you. Seeing as how I’m already using both of mine.” Ned had indeed offered both hands to the task of snake taming.

“I see you are applying the Archimedes rule of Hydraulics.” That being that a continuous tunnel moved in a circular motion will efficiently raise a volume of liquid in a closed tube.”

“I was always impressed by Archimedes’ Screw.”

“I prefer his laws of angle and force.” It was a simple test of mechanical process to see Ned’s trousers on the floor and Ned’s legs over Tom’s shoulders. So angled, he could apply his thrust effectively.

Ned gasped as Tom pressed his length – all the ten inches so blithely referenced – with the relentless force of a hydraulic ram. Even though Ned had come expecting this, even though he had prepared himself, it was still a great deal to take in.

Tom shifted his angle, transferring all his energy to the body below.

“Please Tom.” Ned moaned as the rough wool of his friend’s mechanic’s uniform scratched along his inner thighs.

Ned twisted as the friction generated heat deep within his passage. The table below could not bend, so every shudder pressed his cock into Tom’s demanding clasp even as Tom’s demands made him shudder. He grabbed for skin, for cloth, for anything to pull Tom even closer, even deeper.

Tom drove harder, finding his own release even as he hit the button that sparked Ned’s own electrical current.

They collapsed together, side by side upon the bed of papers.

“Oh bless my britches!” Mr. Wakefield Damon stood in the doorway of the office. “Whatever are you two boys up to?”

Tom rolled to his feet. “Just thanking Ned. It was his ingenuity that has started us on our next venture.”


	3. A Clue From The Past

“Nine hundred and ninety six. Nine hundred and ninety seven.” The bronze man’s corded arms pumped in rhythm to his count, scientifically honed muscles raising the hard body to the full height before pulling downward with equal force, but no hint of strain or labor sounded in his baritone voice. Nine hundred and ninety eight.”

“Sorry, Doc, Didn’t know you were busy.” 

“Almost finished, Monk,” came the smooth answer.

“I finished half an hour ago,” Renwick gasped, unable to do more given his pressed position on the floor. Unlike the Doc, this morning’s calisthenics were having their impact on his breath as well as his ass. This was not because of any weakness on Renwick’s part, but only because even a strong man may have trouble breathing with two hundred and eighty pounds pressing him into the floor tiles. Earlier he had tried to match Savage in his count, but now the man could only lay exhausted and accept each pistoned entry as it was delivered.

Monk paused in the doorway, appreciating the view. “Complaining?”

“Holy cow, no.”

If the entrance and reception seems informal to the reader, I should explain that both Renny and Monk were close friends and long time adventuring associates of Savage. In their own way they were also impressive physical specimens, uniquely possessed of both mental and physical superiority. 

Colonel John "Renny" Renwick was a tall man, one of the few that when standing could meet Clark Savage Jr. eye to eye. While he might look gawky there was no lack of coordination in his rawhide frame, nor was there any weakness in the huge fists that could knock pieces out of wooden doors. His mind was as strong as his body, making him one of the most sought-after construction engineers for industrialists contemplating massive erections.

Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett "Monk" Mayfair was equally famed in his profession as an industrial chemist. His office was full of awards and medals for his many discoveries, even as the newspapers focused on his physical achievements. This brilliance was made all the more piquant by his appearance. Even his close friends granted that Monk’s long arms, short legs, and heavy body hair connected him more with the simian side of the human family tree. 

Renny and Monk were two of the five close companions who often accompanied Doc Savage on his adventures abroad and added him in his efforts at home.

“One thousand.” 

Doc Savage stood. Reaching down, he helped the other man to his feet.

Monk passed his friend Renny a towel. Unlike the Doc, he was sweat-drenched from the workout he had received. Indeed, his face had the tragic sorrow of a well-worked hound, which in Renny’s case meant he was utterly replete. Renny Renwick was unique in that, the sadder he looked, the happier he actually was. If you took the man to a carnival the bystanders would call for a suicide prevention team before he was past the second booth.

“You not going to cum, Doc?”

“Not today, Monk.” Doc Savage maintained his body and mind in the peak of human potential by following a strict regimen of exercise and discipline which has been devised by a team of scientists, and in which he had been instructed from earliest childhood. This training had gifted him with perfect control of his body and raised each of his senses to a perception unmatched by any other living.

Clearly today Doc had been working on controlling his sense of touch. He often did so, reading books in full darkness by the feel of smooth ink against rough paper, or counting sand grains scattered under his feet. His five friends were always glad to help him with his training.

Doc took his place behind a wide desk. It was an exemplar of modern organization. From the telephone to the private telegraph set to the dedicated pneumonic tube ready to carry any message to the secret garage downstairs, every detail was perfectly arranged so that the business of Doc’s Hidalgo Trading Company could be carried out at his command.

“News from Hidalgo, Doc.” Monk placed the coded page on the desk. “Some chap has been making noise about finding the Valley.”

“Little men always make noise.”

“This guy is not a simp.” Monk warned. “Bob Baker was one of the Motor Boys, and that was a bunch up to any adventure. Now he is settled in Hidalgo running a branch of his father’s bank. We can’t just have El Presidente Avispa toss him in a dungeon. The man has friends and connections.”

“How far has he gotten?”

“Not far, and too far for comfort.” Monk thought over the information he had gained from their Mayan messenger. “That is, our agent managed to slip enough ringers into his crew to spike the man’s own expedition. The crew we hired for him were half soft. They had to pull out before they were really even in, and they were wrung out enough to assure that Baker couldn’t get it up again before the rainy season. Our man thought that Baker would pull out completely, but instead of giving up he sent the map on to someone in America.”

“Do we know to whom?”

“Not exactly.”

Doc Savage frowned. That was not the sort of answer he appreciated from his associates.

“Baker was careful. He handed it to a courier who slipped it into the mail somewhere between Hidalgo and New York.”

The frown grew deeper.

“Our agent did get a look at the package,” Monk added hastily. “He couldn’t see the full label but it was addressed to someone in the town of Shopton.”

“Who is of importance there?”

“Two groups.” Monk had expected this question and had done his research. “One is Swift Construction, the engineering company.

“I have heard of them.” A faint smile ghosted over the Doc’s features. “Mr. Swift is well regarded, and his son Tom promises to surpass him.”

Renny said nothing, but he nodded. He had worked with Swift Construction on several projects and had positive opinions about the effectiveness of the company.

“The other is a private outfit owned by Andy Foger.”

“I’ve heard of him too.” The Doc’s very lack of inflection was enough to reveal his opinion.

“What should we do?” Monk asked. “Can we go and steal the map back?” For a good man, Monk was willing to press the line of the law when he thought himself ‘pranking’ an equal.

“We could sneak into their hangers and spike their ships”, Renny suggested, “but that might damage socially useful projects.”

“No.” Doc Savage decided. “We can’t take such action, not when we don’t know who has the map or what they plan to do with it. What I will do is send you, Colonel Renwick, out to Shopton to discuss a potential orthocopter contract with both Mr. Foger and Mr. Swift. Being rivals, each will want to cut the other out of the potential project. They will show you around their plant and you should be able to spot the clues if either company is building up to a serious undertaking.”

“Sure thing, Doc.”

“Take Pat with you,” Savaged added. “She can keep you company, and serve as a distraction if you need one. If nothing else, she’ll be out of my hair for the week, so she won’t be distracting me.”

Renny looked more depressed than ever, which Monk knew meant he was delighted.

“What should I do, Doc?”

“You, Monk?” Savage pointed to the mat where he had mounted Renwick just moments before. “You can assist me with the rest of my exercises.”


	4. A Hidden Spy

“Hey. Hey!” The whisper followed a tapping on the door to Andy Foger’s airplane workshop.

“What?” Andy snapped? Never quiet-tempered, he had been deep in the workings of his latest aircraft, and the complexities of the engine were frustrating him. He had no patience left for vagrants and beggars – for that is what he took the man at the door to be. He could not see much of the man though the small square of smudged glass that served his observation, but what he could discern seemed both dirty and disheveled.

“Let me in,” the voice cried back. 

“Why should I let a bum into my shop? You might steal something.” Normally he would not have extended that much consideration, but something about the voice was familiar.

“I already have, that’s why.”

A strange answer from a vagrant. Andy opened the door. There, on the concrete step, was his friend and sometimes partner (co-conspirator might be more accurate) Sam Snedecker.

Sam pushed forward rudely. “Get out of the door. I don’t want to be seen.”

“Not looking like that, you don’t.” Andy laughed openly at the other man’s appearance. Not only was he oil-spotted, not only was his hair a tangle of twigs and muck, but his usually fine suit had been replaced with a stained coverall which not even the coldest roadman would have considered wearing.

“Oh this?” He plucked at the shredded collar. “I stole it from Swift.”

“Why would you want to do that?” If this was the great theft Sam had been bragging about Andy would set him out on his ear.

“Because it’s not the only thing I stole,” Sam exclaimed proudly.

For the reader’s sake I should explain now that neither Andy Foger nor Sam Snedecker - while both of prosperous parentage and well educated - could accurately be described as honest. Of the two, Andy Foger was perhaps the worse, being in name and often fact the leader of their various conspiracies. He was an old foe of Tom Swift, a rival of their mutual school days, and forever scheming to beat the Swift crew out of some prize or other. As his father had supported him with the money for airplanes and equipment this challenge was not a feeble one, although Andy’s own nature generally tripped him up short of the finish line. Sam Snedecker, on the other hand, held no particular animus against the Swift enterprise, save that every penny earned by Swift Construction was one which could not find it’s was into the Snedecker coffers. Having less generous paternity, Sam generally followed Andy in his plots against Swift, but he did so with a weather eye for his own opportunity. What they had between them might not quite be a friendship as better men might have considered the emotion, but they were loyal so long as their two interests ran together.

“Look.” I was coming down Berk's Hill and spotted Ned Newton in his new motor car.”

The car – known to be a gift from Tom Swift - had been a matter of some dyspepsia as Sam had not been allowed a new model this year. Most young men would have counted the two seater Huppmobile Sam did drive as a princely gift, but Sam was not of a nature to value even once inch below best place.

“He was in a great hurry for a man on his lunch break, so I decided it would be in my interest – in our mutual interests – to follow and see what he was up to.”

“Did you?” Andy pressed for the discovery. Clearly Sam had followed, and as he was generally unbruised (a fact revealed as Sam eagerly stripped off his loathsome disguise) Andy assumed the other man had not been caught out in his spying.

“I stayed behind him until I was sure he was heading out to the Swift property. Going up to the gate would get me spotted for sure, so I left my car by the road – tucked behind some brambles - and tried to follow him.”

“I meant did you find out anything?” Andy huffed. “Don’t drag out the story.”

“I nearly got caught by that damn mule, but yes. The mechanical shed was occupied – I couldn’t go in there – but around back I spotted this coverall in the trash.”

“It belongs in the trash.”

“If all you are going to do is complain I can take my discovery elsewhere.”

“Sorry.” Andy was not, but years of wheedling his parents had made him expert at faking the emotion. “I’ll listen.”

“Like I said, I couldn’t safely sneak into the shed, but when the older Mr. Swift came home Tom and Ned went to see him in the house. That was my chance to sneak into Tom’s private workroom – the one he calls the den. What do you think I saw there?”

Bare to his long johns, Sam Snedecker pulled one wrinkled sheet of brown wrapping paper from some inner concealment.

“Not much if that scrap is all you brought out.” Only when Sam turned to go did Andy amend quickly. “You know I’m just joshing you.”

“Look closer.” He pressed the scrap flat against the plank wall of the work shed. “And if you say one more mean word I’ll take it to New York and cut you out all together.”

“It’s a map.” That, or a really unlikely convergence of ink spots. It absolutely was not a blueprint or patent illustration, which was what he had expected from Swift’s workshop.

“It’s a treasure map.”

“Is that a river?” Andy pointed to a long brown smudge.

“No, it’s a mayonnaise stain. A sandwich wrapper was the only paper I could find free in the shop. I copied the parchment as best I could.” 

Sam was, sadly, no draftsman. He was not even as trained in the art as Andy, and Andy knew he had been an indifferent student. Part of him wanted to scream and hit the other man for not just grabbing the original. That would have given Andy a perfect copy and – always a pleasure – deprived Tom Swift. Of course, such a visible theft would have alerted Swift instantly that his sanctum had been penetrated, and likely have brought the local constables out to toss the Foger shop in return. Sam was always thinking about things like that, which was another reason Andy kept him around.

Sam was still going on when Andy bothered listening again. “From the notes he had out this mark here is the legendary Valley of the Vanished, the greatest source of Inca gold. These are the mountains that cut the City of Gold off from the rest of the world. This line here is the only route in.”

“You’re sure?” That wasn’t mean – that was a question.

“Tom Swift is sure. He’s loading the Red Cloud and heading to Hidalgo as soon as they can get their party together.” 

“An airship. Good idea – I’m glad I had it! With an airship we could glide over the mountains, while swift and his party deal with whatever traps the natives have prepared below.”

“Where will you get an airship?” Sam was no engineer, and did not bother with the technicalities as Andy Foger could, but he was sharp enough to know what was in his pocket. Rather, in this case, pickable from Foger’s pocket.

The Slugger is nearly repaired. We can pick her up in Centerton.

“That’s not a very big ship.”

“She’ll hold the two of us plus Pete Bailey. That’s good enough for me to follow and put a bolt in Swift’s caboose.”

Bailey was a young man of low character but substantial physical strength who had been of use to Andy in several previous jousts against Tom Swift. In Andy’s world he counted as less than a friend but still higher than a mere hireling. So long as Andy provided pay and the entertainment of a good brawl Pete could be counted on to work hard and obey Andy’s orders. He also had a tight hole and a tongue that could bend wire. Generally that was all Andy would ask for in a companion.

“Spike Swift and take the treasure, you mean. Don’t forget that I’m the one who brought you this. I better get a full share of the loot.”

“Have I ever shafted you before?” Andy probed.

“No more often than I wanted you to.”

“Tell Pete to lube up the triplane.”

“Soon enough.” Sam started pulling off his long johns, his last remaining layer of garment. “I have something else I want you to lube up first.

“Demanding?” Andy cocked an eyebrow.

“Consider it a down payment on everything you are going to owe me once we come back with a airship loaded with gold.”

Andy followed Sam down to the sawdust floor. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“And I better get it good and hard.”

 

******

_Authors Note ☞Huppmobile was a real car company. Obscure, but not so much that examples aren’t still existent. (My soul longs to drive a ‘Hump-mobile’. The convertible model.)_


	5. The Fateful Phone Call

“Send that one out on the phone, Tom.” Doc Savage clicked the phonograph recording into the special telephone record player.

“Overriding the exchange, Doc.” A clatter of bells and clicks filled the room, each dropping as the phone was answered at the other end.

Major Thomas J. "Long Tom" Roberts was one of Clark Savage Jr.’s special crew of hard men, and as an electrical engineer was the one he most often called on when in need of special inventions. The telephone on Savage’s desk was one of his inventions, and of the many perhaps the most useful, as it allowed the Man of Bronze to speak to his network of agents even when he himself was occupied by more weighty matters.

“This is Clark Savage Junior” the voice began. After that came the instructions of the day, instructions to look out for both Tom Swift and Andy Foger, and beyond that the duty to report any mention of or movement towards Hidalgo that had not been approved though Doc’s own Hidalgo Trading Company.

“One hundred and sixty nine answers out of one hundred and eighty three summoned. A good response.”

Doc did not agree. He made a note of those of his servants who had not answered their phones. Some might have legitimately been unable – away or out of hearing – but all would be investigated and the undutiful would be punished.

“Doc?” Long Tom listened intently to the voice over the long-distance line. “Wharf man from Mansburg.” 

He gave the name. Doc recognized it as one of the criminals he had rehabilitated.

I should reveal, for those few who do not know of the incredible reputation of Savage, that one of the doctor’s greatest discoveries was that particular and delicate brain operation by which he removed from his former opponents every desire to lead a criminal life. It was with this end in mind that he had invented his various non-lethal weapons, preferring to take prisoners who could then be converted to obedient and productive citizens in his various endeavors.

“Put him on.”

Tom flicked a switch, connecting the line to the rooms speakers.

“Doc?” The man’s worry carried over the long wire. “You was asking about Andy Foger? Guy by that name brought in a plane not an hour back. Loaded it on one of the tramps and headed to sea. Don’t know where he was going, but he went in a mighty hurry.”

“Learn more, and get back to me when you have answers.”

“Yes Sir Doc sir.”

Doc Savage signaled his man, who in turn sent the electronic signal that would reward the reporter with several second of sheer pleasure. It was this, as much as sorrow over past misdeeds, which kept the former felons so devoted to Savage.

For the lawful and intelligent, Doc Savage had other forms of reward.

“You did well.”

The electrical engineer fell to his knees. “Anything to please you, Doc.”

“Come here and please me more.” 

Long Tom opened his pants and proved the true origin of his nickname.

“Fuck well, and afterwards I will let you devise an accident for the Foger party that will keep them and their ship out of Hidalgo forever.”

****

Meanwhile, back on the road between Waterford and Shopton, two other explorers were reaching their own conclusion.

“You putting money on Foger?” John "Renny" Renwick asked the striking copper-haired beauty in the driver’s seat.

“Only if the race is for last place.” 

Patricia Savage steered the touring car skillfully around the ruts in the country road. Clearly the term ‘main road’ was purely a courtesy, as no serious commerce would tolerate the lax standards around them. The same, she thought with some amusement, applied to the workshop they had just left. Andy Foger had been out, but the shop foreman had been gay at the chance to show them around. From the way the man kept feeling Renwick out about Hidalgo industries Patricia Savage got the impression that Foger Industries was not a great place to work.

“Looks to me like his is pretty small.” she ventured.

“I meant his airship.”

“That’s undersized also.”

Renwick nodded. “Frustrating.”

“I’m getting more so by the minute.”

“I don’t think Foger is our mystery map-snatcher. We’ll slip a couple of Doc’s ex-criminals into his work crew just in case.” Renwick looked over. “On to Swift next?”

“Did you call ahead?” Pat asked. They were coming to the split in the road. One direction would take them to a small farm community where the feed store might have a phone. The other roads lead straight to Swift Construction.

“No. It seems that the two companies are neighbors but not what you would call neighborly.”

“Then, if you aren’t on a schedule, why don’t we take a break over there?” She steered the car towards a third road, or rather a bare path leading down to a copse of trees. “It’s lunchtime.”

“Are you hungry?”

She licked her lips. “Starving.”

He pulled a blanket from the rumble seat and spread it on a patch of warm grass.

“I think the hotel packed ham sandwiches.”

“Forget that! I want sausage. “

Patricia Savage was a woman, but she was a Savage, and the product of the same breeding program as her cousin. Thus she was as much stronger than the average woman as Clark Savage Junior was stronger than the average man. She could easily overwhelm the protests of even a vigorous man like Renwick. Not that he was protesting.

In a flip worthy of an Olympian she had the man on his back, fly open and cock exposed. Positioning herself, she plunged down.

“Oh, that hit the spot,” she sighed.

Renwick rolled her over. “I can hit a better spot.”

She lay on her back, glazed eyes rolling unfocused at the heavens as his warm tongue worked every nerve in the little nub.

“Oh.” Her hips jerked.

“Oh! Oh” OHHH! Renny!” She drummed her heels on his back. “Now. Now!”

“Was it that good?", he asked smugly.

“Not you. I was trying to tell you that the Swift airship just went by overhead.”


	6. Undersea Raiders

“Keep watching the horizon.”

“Si, Senior Foger.”

“Why the fuss? It’s a beautiful day. We have deck chairs, punch, maybe a few of the cuter deck hands. We are golden.” Sam Snedecker slid lower into his deck chair, a bootleg copy of Fanny Hill slipping from his fingers.

“No, our prize is golden, as in real gold, and Tom Swift is after is just as much as we are. I don’t know the top speed of his electric motor boat, but I’m not willing to bet it can’t catch this tub.”

“How could he know where we are? El Capitan here won’t be talking.” Sam gestured dismissively at the sea-rough officer braced on the poop deck. “No one left behind can say more than that we loaded the plane and left. He might catch up with us if we pass the Canal, but until then?” Sam lifted his glass of grog. “Oceans are very very big.”

“Swift, blast his boots, is very very smart. I don’t trust we won’t invent some sort of radio tracker that will let him spot a boat, even one this far out.”

“Could you do that?”

“Me? No. Now without better vacuum tubes than exist now. Swift? In theory, a radio frequency could be tracked by the reflection of waves off a metallic object,” Andy Foger reflected. “Tom Swift has a bad reputation for turning theory into practice, and a worse one for turning my plans into disasters.”

“So?” Sam Snedecker went back to his reading. “If he shows up there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“ There’s’ plenty I can do about it.” Andy Foger rummaged in the deck box, at last bringing up a metal sphere decked with springs and switches. “With my electro-magnetic mines, I’ll blow any boat they bring out of the water.”

“Fine. But until they show up?” Sam Snedecker unclipped the buckle on his belt. “I’ve got something else you can blow.”

****

“Pampachaway, Major Roberts.” The submarine captain stood at attention, waiting to be acknowledged by the man Doc Savage had put in charge of this most secret operation. “We have a vessel on the long-range viewer.”

“Identity?” Long Tom Roberts snapped.

“A small freighter. Reading the bow, it is the _Hispana Wasi_.”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Several of Doc Savage’s more special agents had descended on the port town of Mansburg, and their quest for answers had not been a gentle one. This was one of the greatest benefits of Doc’s special anti-criminal surgery, in that it cured the recipient of the native impulse to use his strength for crime but left the skills learned in that prior career intact – meaning that those once-illicit talents could now be used by Savage for his own – more progressive – ends.

Tom gave the order. “Load the magno-atomic torpedoes.” One direct strike and the ocean would hold only carbon scraps, and few of those. Not even the sharks would find benefit in what remained.

“But sir!” the ordinance officer exploded. “That is a Hildalgan ship!”

“Hark'ay!” the Captain rebuked. “Their fate is unfortunate, but they have unwittingly given aid to the enemies of Doc Savage.”

The ordinance man nodded, sad but wise. “They have acted against Kawil Savage-zin. Their lives are forfeit.”

Long Tom held up his had, forestalling further punishment. “Let us be merciful as Doc Savage is just. Prepare a boarding party. The crew of the _Hispana Wasi_ may make reparations as pleasure slaves to the most courageous of our warriors.” 

A general cheer went up as the sailors of the submarine heard this good news.

“And what of Andy Foger and his men?”, the Captain inquired.

“If the American’s survive I will have the pleasure of punishing them… most severely.”

****  
“Bless my buns, Barton. Look at that!” Mr. Wakefield Damon pointed to a flash of light in the ocean just off the port bow of their airship.

Barton Swift had come along on his son’s latest adventure, not out of desire for wealth but from a paternal care for all the boys. In this his dear friend Wakefield Damon had encouraged him. Barton Swift had spent his youth in engineering adventure, and while it had rewarded him with both public exposure and prosperity the great muscular emissions involved in raising so many massive erections had strained his health. Wakefield Damon hoped that the warm air of the south would ease Swift’s lungs even as time as a voyeur elevated his spirits. 

Such ambitions might seem alien to older men of the comfortable class, but Wakefield Damon had been something of an adventurer in his own youth, and had in his time penetrated many a strange cavern and opened his body to various unique experiences, and the memory of those days remained warm in his heart. He had surrendered his intrigues only when his body could no longer rise to the rigors of the trade, and had as gladly returned to harness on discovering the pleasures of Tom Swift’s remarkable airship. 

While Tom’s ship – the new _Red Cloud_ – was not the largest hard airship in the world it so cleverly contrived as to prove that size alone was not what mattered. Tom’s new expansion gas could keep the ship up far longer than other airships, while his compact motors supplied such thrust that the ship far surpassed any competitors in speed. To this we may add such a myriad of clever devices and installations, all the creation of Tom or of his father, provided creature comforts beyond even those of the German Zeppelin.

While commercial air ships demanded a large crew, Tom Swift had set off with only four others. These were his friend Ned, his father, his father’s friend, and their general factotum Eradicate Andrew Jackson Abraham Lincoln Sampson, the last deputized to handle the domestic matters of the voyage.

It was for this later reason that Damon had volunteered to stand the evening watch.

Barton Swift turned his binoculars to the scene below. “You are right! It is a tramp freighter, and the deck is awash with sea-men. I would even call them pirates, save that I can spot no second vessel that might have injected such hostile bodies.”

Wakefield Damon was already on the ships telephone, and had reported his findings to young Tom, who was active as Captain on the gondola deck.

“I see a plane on the deck. Could the pirates have come that way?”

“What? Land a plane on a boat? You might devise a way, son, but I’d swear no other man could engineer such a thing.”

“I’d like to say you were right, father, but I’d not want to toot my own horn.”

“That’s my job,” Ned Newton inserted with vim. “I have a straight view. There is a shadow off the port side that just might be a submarine.”

“This far out?” Barton Swift marveled. Such vessels were known in war, but were tricky to handle and did not serve well on long voyages in deep water. “Who could manage that?”

“I’ve got a clue. Does that bit of ginger look like Andy Foger?”

“It does indeed, Ned, and that boy at his side looks like his bosom buddy Sam Snedecker.”

“I knew he was a bad lad, but I never thought he’s stoop to piracy.”

“That’s too much villainy even for Andy, Dad, and this once I might even think he landed in the right.” Tom switched his telescope into his left hand, freeing his right to work the controls. “There’s Pete Bailey heading for the plane.”

It was indeed, and as the battle raged on every side Pete Bailey twisted the prop until the motor caught. His courage was rewarded, the five brown men assailing him falling back at the threat of those sharp and rapid blades. Pete ducked under, so close that those on the airship might swear the lad gave himself a haircut, and scrambled into the pilot’s seat.

“What is he waiting for?” Ned queried.

“Whatever it is, I don’t think we want to have our ship too close when it happens.”

“Good spotting, Tom.” His father encouraged. “I’m guessing from the speed of that propeller, he doesn’t plan to stay around either.”

“Can he hope to take off from such a rough deck?” Wakefield Damon asked. 

“I’d not try it.”

“I would” Tom said manfully, “if the only other choice was being ravished by pirates.”

Tom and the company watched with interest as the two Americans raced to the side of the ship, Andy cradling a metal weight which – even to inexperienced eyes, of which Swift’s company held none – had the look of a destructive device. 

Ducking and swinging the two young men made their way to the very deck that overlooked the submerged craft. Sam nearly fell to the press of hard brown bodies, but at the last Andy gasped and released his package over the edge.

The burst of white water inundated the deck, washing the mingled sea-men in a salty flood.

Andy Foger and his chum jumped, clinging to the hard rods of the plane. Even from above, Tom and company could see their gasps of exhaustion.

Pete Bailey gunned the motor, desperate to get off.

The plane rose.

The pirates, those who survived, tried to rally but could not become erect in the powerful winds generated by the machine.

“He’s going to make it!”

That indeed was Ned Newton’s prediction, and it might have proved true had the plane not dipped at the last second, catching one wheel on the shattered railing.

The plane tipped. 

“He’s going down!”

“Lower the cables,” Tom demanded.

Ned obeyed. He always obeyed Tom.

“Can the ship take the weight?” Barton Swift worried.

“It will have to,” Tom required,” for I can’t leave an American to pirates or to sharks.”

Using great skill, Ned Newton caught the center of the top wing with one of the huge lifting hooks Tom Swift had designed for taking up cargo.

The plane stopped, but it was still half in the water. Waves dashed the skin of the delicate craft, swamping the passengers who clung desperately to any support they could grasp.

“Pull out, Ned!” Tom demanded.

“I’m not sure I can, Tom.” The boy grunted under the strain, a moan echoed by the body of the Red Cloud. “The water is sucking them down.”

“Inflate another gas bag,” came the answer.

“Good thinking, Tom.” Barton Swift and Wakefield Damon surged to comply.

“I can’t hold out for long, Tom!”

“Deep breaths and positive thoughts, chum.”

As soon as the plane rose close Tom Swift leaned far over the railing. Catching each boy firmly he pulled them on board.

“We’re off balance, Tom!” Ned warned.

“Let her go.”

Ned did so. The released plane quickly slid into the waves, lapped by the scrap from the two defeated marine vessels.

“Why sir, lookie who we have here.” Eradiate Sampson strode the deck, looking down on the three newcomers. The later boy lay splayed on the deck in utter expenditure. “Them’s some mighty queer fish you’ve been catching, Mr. Tom.”

“Some mighty queer cargo too.” Ned reached into Andy Folger’s jacket and pulled out the copy of Tom’s treasure map. 

“Toss him back, Tom,” Ned mocked. “He’s never been big enough to keep.”

“I can’t do that,” Tom denied. “That would be against the Law of the Sea.”

“That’s right!” Andy Foger had gathered his breath, if not his judgment or any sense of proper gratitude. “We are shipwrecked, and you must carry us to a safe port.”

“Of course,” Barton Swift accounted, “the Captain can require the new supercargo to work their passage.”

“If you are so determined to get to Hidalgo, I guess I can give you a ride.” 

Ned snickered. “A good hard ride.”

“Screw you.”

“Yes.” Tom Swift smiled. “That is pretty much what I had in mind.”


	7. Danger Signals

“Mr. Tom. Mr. Tom.” Eradicate Andrew Jackson Abraham Lincoln Sampson clambered up the shipside ladder, feet slipping on the treads in his eager enthusiasm. 

“What is it, Rad?”

“Radio call, sir.” Rad Sampson bent down, leaning fearlessly over thousands of feet of empty atmosphere. One hand gripped the aluminum rail, while in the other a yellow paper fluttered, the face covered by pasted strips of radiotelegraph paper.

Tom took the paper, reading quickly. In his mind’s ear he could hear the code. Three short followed by three long, and then three short to finish – the emblem of distress.

“Anything more than that?”

“No sir. That’s all the message we got.” His brow furrowed in deep recollection. “Seemed to come in stronger when the ship drifted that direction. Rad pointed over the side of the gondola towards the distant mountain range. At this distance the jagged teeth of rock showed as plum shadows against the blue sky, the peaks of the mountains hidden in the white stripe of the clouds.

“Not a boat, then.” Tom and his entire crew had been rightly aware of the dangers at sea since their rescue of Andy Foger and his crew. 

“Don’t sound likely to me, Mr. Tom. Mighty strange for a boat to be using airship frequencies.”

“String out the wire antenna,” Tom directed. “I’ll see if we can raise someone on the short wave.”

Heading down, Tom Swift took his seat at the radio station.

“This is Tom Swift in the airship Red Cloud. We are near San Vidi de Cathode and are receiving emergency code. Can any station receiving this identify the party in distress?” He repeated this several times, shifting though the most used frequencies.

“Tom Swift in the Red Cloud.” The signal cracked back over Tom’s high-powered receiver. “This is Dr. William Harper Littlejohn on the mountains over the village of Puebla Amoza. We have been cut off from our company by a landslide and are stranded.

Ned Newton frowned over Tom’s shoulder. “What the chorizo were they doing there?”

“No matter, Ned. We can ask them once we’ve picked them up.”

“Can you get a message to the village?” the voice over the radio prompted. “They may be able to send a crew to rebuild the roadway. It is the only way I can imagine that we will escape.”

“Work on your imagination, Doctor Littlejohn, and I’ll work on the rescue.”

“That is valiant but impossible, young man. Not even a mule could make it over the rocks here.”

“You’re in luck. We didn’t pack along the mule. The Red Cloud is an airship. Let us know where you are, and we’ll be there in two shake of a burro’s tale.”

Ned Newton leaned closer, his breath warm against his friend’s cheek. “Sorry to interrupt, Doctor Littlejohn, but do you know your map coordinates?”

“I’d be a poor explorer if I did not.” The doctor read out his latitude and longitude, allowing Ned to locate the speaker with great precision on the up-to-date navigation map they had been using to pilot the Red Cloud.

“Great luck, Tom. That is right on our course. It’s like we were sent their way.”

“Dr. Littlejohn, we should be there in an hour,” Tom said timefully. 

“I and my four men will be waiting for you.”

“Thanks. It will help if you are loaded for us.”

“I promise, each and every one of them will be.”

With that, Doctor Littlejohn cut the radio connection.

“Steer us towards Puebla Amoza,” Tom directed.

“Are you sure, Tom?” Ned didn’t like to play the wet blanket, but he felt that sometimes Tom Swift acted too much from his boyish sense of fair play and too little from concern for his own material interests. “We are pretty stuffed already.”

“What choice do we have?”

“I guess you are right, Tom.” 

Ned had heard Tom give his word, and a promise was as good as a debt.

“Get ready to inflate another gas bag if necessary,” Tom expanded. “Offload ballast water. We might be a bit short on showers until we can drop them off in Naya, but it wouldn’t be right to stiff another American.”

“That’s all right, Tom. I’ll be willing to share my shower with you.”

“You’re a real chum, Ned.”

“Tom?” Barton Swift inspected the wall map with experienced eyes. “Why don’t you land at Santa Callusa first? You can let Mr. Wakefield Damon and myself off there. That should clear space for new passengers.”

“Brilliant idea, father. We can come back for you, and Dr. Littlejohn and his people can catch a train from there.”

“What about us?” Sam Snedecker quibbled. “I want to get off.”

“You always want to get off.” Ned Newton scoffed.

Barton Swift shook his head. “From rooming next to my son Tom, I should think you have already done so… frequently.”

Tom made a swift decision. “You and the rest of the Foger crew can land with father, but you fellows stay with him. I’m not going to let you go just yet. Not until I’m sure you won’t be making more trouble.”

****  
Tom and Ned had their hands full as they approached the high mountains.

“Got their signal, boss.” Rad shouted up from the observation deck.

The watcher was as reliable as ever, and there was indeed a man perched on the tumbled rocks below. He was waving a bright red flag.

“Bad luck to be them fellows. I can see the rocks blocking the road. Looks near enough like they were blasted, that’s how bad the road is ruined. If it weren’t for you I don’t think those folks would ever get out.”

“Hold her steady, Ned,” Tom directed evenly.

“Not easy in this wind. I’m thankful that you invented the automatic ruder on this shop.”

He was thankful also that Tom had taken the senior Swift’s advice. Had they dropped ballast these fierce mountain winds would have tossed them around like a child’s party balloon.

“Rad! Come down and help me reel out this line.”

“Sure thing Mr. Tom.” Rad dropped lightly down to the gondola. Taking his place at the front, he fed out the steel anchor cable with expert precision. “I can see them catching it now. Good thing they look right big.”

“Let’s hope they can find a good anchor.”

That they did. The men serving Dr. Littlejohn may not have been the experienced aircrew of Tom Swift’s ‘Shed’, but they knew enough to hook the decent cable to a solid chunk of mountainside.

“Take us down”, Tom directed.

Rad Sampson kept the line tight, winding it back inch by inch while Ned Newton eased off the gasbags and Tom Swift fought to keep the airship’s head into the wind. In mere minutes – for all that the time likely seemed longer to the two engaged crews – the Red Cloud floated mere yards above the five men on the ground.

“Drop the ladder.” 

“They’ve got it.” Ned said grippingly.

Rad Sampson helped the doctor and his four assistants scrambled onboard.

“Welcome aboard, Dr. Littlejohn.” Tom said invitingly.

“This is your full crew?”

“It’s all the crew I need.” 

Tom could have said more, but he was hesitant to impose a burden on the recued men by implying they had inconvenienced him. They had, of course, but that was the one truth which Tom’s character of absolute honestly still could leave unspoken.

Littlejohn looked around, sharp eyes taking in every prospect. “How is that possible? I know the Zeppelin ships require a crew of three dozen.”

“Tom Swift is an inventive genius,” Ned answered smartly. “Notice how I can enter your destination into this magnetic map, then attach this set of wires to the gyroscope? Now the tiller is tied to the course, and any derivation will signal the ruder to angle back onto the proper setting.”

“Brilliant. So all I would need to do if I wished to travel to… let us say New York… would be to shift the pin to that spot there?” Littlejohn pointed at the electrical map.

“Do that, and then push these buttons here, and you won’t need to do much more until you are calling ahead to reserve the zeppelin tower of the Empire State building.”

“Excellent!” The doctor dusted his hands. “This is the best news I have had this week.”

“Why is that?” Tom wondered.

“Because it makes it so much easier for me to do this.”

Littlejohn pulled out his sleep-gas gun. In three pops Tom Swift and his two companions lay unconscious on the metal floor.

*****

 

 

_Special thanks to the three people who have actually read this story. That’s two more than I expected. ☺ Of course, it could just be one person visiting thrice… in which case… triple the thanks._


End file.
